


Like Proserpina

by Novels



Series: Reprise [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Porn with Feelings, book-verse, dumb people in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Elio meets Oliver in his office in New York, after Oliver gave him some of the letters he wrote him but never sent.This is a direct continuation ofEpigraphs for our Love, but it can be read as a stand-alone piece if you're not too interested in why Elio is in Oliver's office in the first place.





	Like Proserpina

**Author's Note:**

> Ooops, I did it again...  
This is the very first time I actually write a sequel to one of my stories. I didn't think I had it in me.  
Also, I cannot actually remember the last time I wrote porn, so bear that in mind.  
Low expectations are easier to meet ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

It was warm in Oliver's office, the air stuffed as it was that summer twenty years ago, when no wind would blow and the sun was so bright that even the earth would radiate heat. It reminded me of our long hours upstairs, in our room, with the shutters open just enough to let some air pass and the room cast in long shadows that drew dancing pictures on our naked bodies. Close enough to touch, far enough to breathe. Oliver's fingers would chase the shadows on my belly, tracing their movements as the trees outside rustled in the breeze and the curtains billowed. I had found peace in those sweltering afternoons, not quite in his arms, content with the knowledge that I could be, would be soon, as soon as my parents went to bed, as soon as everybody left the house, as soon as we went to the berm and lay on the grass, water dripping from our hair, falling on my naked chest as he chased the drops with his mouth.

I had worshipped those memories for twenty years. I was certain I would worship them for the rest of my life. Oliver was with me every day when the sun hit so hard I needed sunglasses to keep my eyes open, every day when the crickets outside my window sang their monotonous song, every day when Mafalda served the apricot juice at the table. He was with me every day a sudden storm hit the villa, and then Milan, and then Rome, forcing me to run for shelter. He was with me every time one of my lovers walked into the room with their shirts open, hands in their pockets, feigning nonchalance. He was with me in the way the bed creaked when I sat too heavily on it, in the way the door slammed if you closed it carelessly, in the way my father would nitpick some passage by Heidegger and then ask me if it made any sense.

Oliver had been with me in every detail of my life for the past twenty years, in the most insignificant fragments, in the quietest notes. Now that he was in front of me, our bodies not quite touching, his hand on my cheek, his eyes roaming on my face, searching for confirmation, forgiveness, acceptance, he became whole again. A whole image, a whole melody. Oliver again, Elio again.

My eyes fluttered closed as he placed light kisses on my forehead, my cheek, my nose.

I closed the distance and kissed him, without hesitating, without lingering, my lips rough against his as I demanded closure, totality. No shards of memory anymore, sharp and pointy and so, so painful to have in me. I wanted all of him, his mind, his body, his soul. I wanted his shyness, his bravery, his confidence. I wanted his doubts, his fears, his hopes. Most of all, I wanted his love.

He kissed me back with the same fierceness, equally desperate to learn my body again, my wants, my demands. His arms held me tight, his fingers dug into my hips. We stumbled to the sofa, mindless of the papers strewn on it. Half sitting and half reclining, our bodies flushed together, our hands roaming, we exchanged long kisses and long sighs. We were sharing the relief of having finally found each other, completely, without reserve.

Eventually, Oliver broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our lips millimeters apart.

"Does this make you happy?" he asked. I was half-hard against his body and there was no way he didn't feel it, but I knew he was not talking about sex this time. Maybe he had not been talking about sex that other time, either. Maybe when I had nodded then, not quite making eye contact, not really sure if I truly meant it, I hadn't been talking about that either. I stared into his eyes, finally sure of myself, twenty years apart weighing on us, and said yes.

He smiled that small, private smile I had missed so much and kissed me once more, passionately, overwhelmingly. Then he pulled away and offered me his hand, pulling me to my feet.

"C'mon," he said, "let's go home."

*

Oliver did not live that far from campus and the short walk to his flat helped me ground myself, taking it all in. I was with him again. In the same city, in the same street, soon in the same house. No one to interrupt us there, no housekeepers, no parents, no children.

Our kisses had been so meaningful. We had not spoken, not really, but our bodies had done the talking for us. We had always been good at talking about anything but us. I liked to think it was because we both knew anyway. That we were made for each other, that we loved each other, that we would find our way back to each other someday.

And here we were, walking side by side, quietly drinking each other in. Oliver looked just as stunning as he did under the sweltering Italian sun. His hair had a few streaks of grey, his eyes were surrounded by the tiniest wrinkles, but the rest was unchanged. He walked with the same carefree gait, he smiled liberally, and he looked perfectly at ease. I wondered if he found me any different. Older, for sure, but wiser, perhaps? Hopefully less obvious, because now that we ha laid our hearts at our feet and had made peace with the past, I could only think of getting my hands on him. I wondered if, under his calm facade, he too felt the scalding burn of desire, the irresistible impulse to touch, to mark, to devour each other. He kept looking at me from the corner of his eye; I thought he must be feeling it too.

What would it be like, being in bed with him again after all these years? Would he be sweet, careful, afraid to hurt me again? Would he jump at me the moment I closed the door of his apartment? I realised I didn't know him well enough anymore to guess. I felt equally saddened and thrilled by the idea. Saddened because this was a testament to the time we had spent apart, thrilled because I was about to discover him all over again.

We took the stairs to the second floor, Oliver leading the way. He unlocked the door and stepped inside his flat. I followed him in, closing the door behind me. He did not pin me to it and I stood there watching him as he put the keys on a little table and took his shoes off, walking toward the kitchen. He turned to look at me and asked if I wanted anything to drink.

I waited too long to answer, actually thinking his question through. Did I want anything to drink? Could I answer 'you' without sounding too needy? Could I answer 'no' and just drag him to his bedroom? Should I say yes and sit there politely waiting for him to make the first move? Oliver was not very good at those, I recalled. Always doubting, always second-guessing his decisions -- much more than I used to, for that matter.

"Do  _ you _ want anything to drink?" I ended up answering as I took off my shoes. Just a little poke, playing my cards close to my chest.

Oliver snorted an honest laugh. "No, not really," he said, walking back to me.

"Good," I replied, pulling him against me. "'Cause I really think we have waited enough."

He hummed in agreement as he bent his head to kiss me and I let him take the lead, melting in his arms. I had missed him immensely. He did pin me to the wall then, pushing my back against it as he cradled my head and pushed his tongue past my parted lips, chasing mine. I wrapped one of my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, impossibly closer. I could feel his growing erection against mine and moved my hips to get more friction, just a little, unable to refrain myself. Oliver groaned softly into my mouth, sinking into my body. I felt one of his hands leaving my head and grabbing onto my tight, lifting me up. I felt like Bernini's Proserpina in his hands, but I was not trying to get away from my captor. I wrapped my other leg around him as he carried me to the sofa and covered my body with his. I was engulfed in his arms, bathing in his scent. It was warm in the flat but none of us really noticed or cared. Our embrace still felt like I had snuggled under my duvet and I had made the perfect cocoon with it. I felt safe, so safe in his arms. Oliver traced a trail of kisses from my mouth to my neck, sucking at the point where it met my collarbone. I shivered under him and a light moan left my lips. It was bliss, it was ecstasy. He knew my body, he remembered my body. He knew where to touch me to play our symphony. His hands started undoing the buttons on my shirt and I gathered enough lucidity to do the same. I was impatient to get us out of our clothes, annoyed that such a trivial matter was distracting him from putting his mouth all over my body. I wanted to rediscover everything, I wanted to explore his body with my eyes, my hands, my mouth. I wanted to make him moan my name, his name. I wanted to see him come on me, smear his fingers through his semen. I wanted to taste him, feel him inside me, feel myself inside him. I wanted everything I could have and, I suddenly realised, I could have it all.

I wrestled him out of his clothes in no time, my hands craving to touch his bare skin. I lifted my hips to help him get my pants off and finally, finally our naked bodies met again. I felt him groan as we tangled our limbs together -- or was it myself groaning? -- our mouths once again chasing each other. I would never tire of kissing him. I revelled in the feeling of his hand on me, inching lower and lower, stroking us both together. My fingers dug into his ass as my hips moved to meet his hand, lost in sensation, failing to find a rhythm because we were already past that point. I was already feeling close, unable to contain the sensations, the emotions. We would have time to do more later, I thought, as I moaned under him, pulling him closer and closer, making him moan softly, his eyes squeezing shut as he pleasured us both. I could feel the tension rising in him and I pulled him in for a bruising kiss, teeth clashing, careless in our passion. "I'm gonna come," I panted, and he nodded, kissed me. "Yes, come for me, Elio," he whispered, licking my earlobe, my neck. I let go with a strangled shout, spilling all over me. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience as I rushed to kiss Oliver over and over again, through his own orgasm, as he collapsed on me, unconcerned with the mess covering my belly.

We lay there panting, tangled in each other, covered in sweat and come and unabashed happiness. I placed a soft kiss on Oliver's head, my hands tracing meaningless symbols on his back.

Soon we would have to talk things over, make some important decisions, prepare our new life together. But for the moment, I lay on Oliver's sofa with him draped over me as a perfect blanket for a hot summer day, and I listened to his heart beat against mine, reclaiming his rightful place once more, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Bernini's Proserpina is one of the most beautiful statues ever made. It's actually called "[The Rape of Proserpina](https://www.finestresullarte.info/blog/immagini/2018/902/dettaglio-proserpina.jpg)," which makes it quite gloomy since she's trying to run away from Pluto, but the way Bernini sculpted the bodies is just out of this world.


End file.
